


i don't know where i begin

by orphan_account



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Post-Season/Series 07, and is surprisingly invested in getting sansa laid, arya is the wingwoman from god herself, arya is us. we are arya., in which everyone is bad at communication
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-05
Updated: 2018-03-05
Packaged: 2019-03-27 05:40:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13874322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: "Honestly, Sansa, you are, without a doubt, the stupidest clever person I've ever met."





	i don't know where i begin

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mollyraesly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mollyraesly/gifts).



> Exposition that i was too lazy to work into the actual story: Everyone's at Winterfell, everyone knows Jon's heritage, and because she's got the, yk, _dragons_ [god, i wish that was a euphemism], and the army of rapists-slash-baby-killers, no one's making a fuss about politics. Mmkay, carry on.

"She is in love with him."

Arya states this as a simple fact, staring out past Winterfell's ramparts, at the barbarian army's encampments pitches in the vast barren fields below.

This does not require a response; Sansa doesn't offer one.

After a while, then, "Daenerys loves him? You think so?" She is not so sure now.

"The _queen_ ," Sansa corrects mildly before continuing. "I think... I think it is as close to love as she can manage. I think she lost a great deal, too young-"

 _"So did we,"_ Arya cuts in, a little of her old heat colouring her words, making her sound more a Stark girl than a Faceless Man.

"It's not the same, Arya. We had years of happiness. Years of peace. We were shown love, shown how it may be built, shown how it endures. What did Her Grace have?" A meaningful pause. "A dead mother, a butchered father, an abusive brother-"

"Abusive?" Arya cuts in again, curious this time.

"Ser Jorah keeps his drink poorly."

"Ah."

"An abusive brother, who sold her to a cruel, violent man, whose men raped corpses and little girls, whose people sold thousands into slavery..."

The sisters stay quiet.

"And we? We had Mother, and Father, and Robb, and home. We were very lucky, I think," Sansa says quietly. "We knew love. We knew what it felt like, to be loved. I think... I think it saved us. You and me and- and Jon."

Arya has turned away from the army camps, and is staring at her, head cocked to the side, a faint, wondering smile curving up her lips. "When did _you_ get so bloody smart?"

Sansa chuckles. "You know better than anyone  what a body can learn, when the other option is death."

Arya expressions shutters immediately. "We shouldn't have killed Petyr so quickly." A hard exhalation, and Sansa sees her little sister's hand wrap lovingly around the hilt of her sword, as if she is imagining Littlefinger's throat in its place. "We should've made it _last_."

Sansa smiles, peaceable. "Funny. That's what Jon said."

It pulls a good-natured snort from Arya, as Sansa hoped it would. "Too right he would."

"What's _that_ supposed to mean?"

Arya rolls her eyes. "Honestly, Sansa, you are, without a doubt, the stupidest clever person I've ever met."

"Don't, please," Sansa murmured dryly, clasping a hand to her heart. "You'll make me cry."

Arya grinned widely at that. She had forgotten have much fun Sansa's sharp tongue could be, when it wasn't leveled at you.

But she sobered soon enough. "Is he in love with her, do you think?"

Sansa pauses, before she answers. "I think," she says carefully - but then, she says everything carefully these days - "that he wants to be loved. And he feels more certain of himself, to have earned her love, someone who is brave, and fierce, and beautiful-"

Arya snorts eloquently here, replying, " _You're_ brave, _you're_ fierce," Sansa opens her mouth to deny this, and Arya ploughs on, " _you're_ beautiful."

Sansa sighs. "And I'm his _sister_ , so-"

" _Not_ his sister," Arya counters, scowling, "Besides which, he's a _Targaryen_ -"

"Arya!"

 _"Sansa!"_ Arya mock-protests right back, and then Sansa's giggling, and Arya's grinning right back. "Of course, that does explain why he's been hanging 'round your skirts ever since he came back."

"' _Hanging 'round my-'_!" Sansa repeats, jaw dropping in shock. "He has _not!"_

"He's giving Ghost a run for his money," Arya retorts. There's a sly glint in her dark eyes when she asks, "Ghost sleeps in your bedchamber, doesn't he?"

Sansa nods mutely, blue eyes wide.

Arya exhales on a laugh. "Bet you anything his master's dead jealous."

"Arya, for the love of the Crone, if all you're going to do is talk in _riddles_ -"

"It's _not_ a riddle. If you stopped lying to yourself, you'd see it as clear as the rest of us. You and-"

"Sansa?" comes a new voice, and Arya barks with laughter, muttering under her breath, "Speak of the bedamned devil..." as she stalks down to the solitary stairway leading up to the crenellation, where Jon is waiting. " _Arya?_ " he says, sounding a little more surprised. "What are you two-"

"We wanted a little privacy," Arya says tartly, and Jon's face falls like a kicked pup.

"Oh," he says softly. "Do you need me to leave-"

"Seven save us, _no_ ," Arya bites off. "I need to go check on the forges. You," she snaps at Jon, the way a kennelmaster might command an unruly hound, " _Stay_."

And with that, she's off, melting noiselessly into the shadows. Sansa's gaze meets Jon's, as she sucks her cold lower lip into her mouth, a nervous habit she thought she had long since done away with.

His eyes drop to her mouth, and _stay_ there, and all in a second, Sansa is hot beneath her wools and furs, despite the sleeting wind.

"Why did you give me Mother and Father's room?" The words have escaped her before she can stop them.

Jon jolts, their eyes meeting. "Why... Because you are the Lady of Winterfell. Because I did not think you would like your- your old rooms, after-"

"I would not," Sansa adds in a rush. "But- But..." Her tongue betrays her, and Sansa wets her lips as if to give her a little more courage.

Jon walks to her, takes her hand as she has his so many times before, when he was sinking into one of his _moods_ , and needed to be jolted out of it.

"Tell me," he urges, eyes so dark and lovely and kind, his shoulders so broad, so weighed down by all the world... When did he get so beautiful? Who- Who _let_ him, it isn't _fair_ -

"It's not a chamber for one," Sansa says, her words as soft as a breath. "It has always been a room made for two."

He drops her hand, and her heart plummets.

"Oh," he says, sounding choked. "Well, if there's- if there's someone you- that is. Winter is _here_ , Sansa. Take your happiness where you find it." He pulls away. "I have- There's a matter in the barracks I need to attend to-"

"You."

He stops. Faces her. "What?"

Later, Sansa won't know what made her so brave. Perhaps the knowledge that Jon hasn't rejoined the Dragon Queen's bed in so long. Perhaps the way Ghost looks at her sometimes, and Sansa sees his eyes instead. Perhaps a touch of the Children's scrying magick, that still ran in the blood of the First Men.

Perhaps it was all of these things.  
Or perhaps it was none of them.

"I may be the Lady Regnant, but _you_ are Warden, it is _your_ chamber as much as mine and I want you with-"

But Jon is stock-still, eyes wide as saucers, and Sansa's throat chokes up.

"I- Please-" She exhales, furious and embarrassed, too sick in her belly to meet his horrified gaze. "Forgive me. Forget I said anything, I don't know what came over m-"

And then he strides forward, and slips a hand around the base of her skull, and his mouth is pressing gently against hers, a sweet, lightning shock of a kiss, as if to stymie her relentless torrent of words.

He pulls away, and her eyes open, a needy, desperate sound escaping her lips, hands uselessly searching for purchase against the slick, dark leather of his jerkin.

" _Jon_ ," she cries softly, and he groans in response, the hand around her nape tightening briefly, before he drags her body against his, an arm locking around her narrow waist, and he takes her mouth again, as if starved, open-mouthed and lush and hot, a brand of fire in all this wintry torpor.

Far in the distance, a wolf howls joyously into the falling night, and a dragon, its scales as bright as a new-furled spring leaf, takes up the call, screeching and roaring until the sky is auburn with fire.

High above them, the black dread circles. And a queen keeps watch. 

**Author's Note:**

> work title from 'circles' by jeremy zucker.  
> for molly, who gave me prompts that i didn't use because I'M BAD AT PROMPTS, and generally handled all my flailing with loveliness and grace.


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